


Blinking Light

by KrazyNaoko



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Grimmons, M/M, Soft Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 21:55:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5349872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrazyNaoko/pseuds/KrazyNaoko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Girf finds a very interesting video recorded on his helmet cam.<br/>Staring one drunk, horny Simmons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blinking Light

**Author's Note:**

> Please note:  
> -This is post-whatever-war is going on. My own made up peace times.  
> -This is my first work in English.  
> -This is my first male on male work  
> -This is my first porny-ish themed work.  
> Lot of firsts.  
> Enjoy.

It was one of those very rare days in the Reds and Blues Base.

It was quiet. Tranquil.

Hand on the hip, standing high and with the mug right under his chin, Sarge looked out the mess window, wishing it could be like this more often, but hey, those blues had to be dealt with.

“Evenin’ Sarge” Donut saluted half halfheartedly coming into the mess, hand flopping up and back down in the most inappropriately relaxed gesture. Nobody saluted him properly with the exception of Simmons, but Simmons was Simmons. There was not helping that. He nodded to the coffee pot.

“Help yourself, son” He invited, uncharacteristically friendly.

The soldier looked at him with a half frown, briefly questioning the amiability, but shrugging it off the next second and pouring himself a mug.

The two of them stood, then, for a minute, savoring the quietness, the eerie and special moment, because they both knew, as soon as either Grif or Simmons appeared, it would be ruined.

So, for however long they had this moment of peace, they silently decided to savor it.

It lasted for a whole minute.

Unmistakably, the yells and breaking noises could be heard from all the way from back of the base. Concrete walls and everything, they could clearly hear the fight.

“Well, go on, soldier” Sarge sighed, shoulders dropping a fraction.

“Wait, what?” Franklin asked, hoping it didn’t mean what he thought he meant.

The Colonel sipped his coffee.

“Go check on them, make sure they don't kill each other.” Commanded the commander with his ever present gruff voice. Donut dropped his shoulders and groaned at the ceiling. Disrespectful. “On the double!” He jabbed.

Donut all but smacked his mug on the table, the coffee nearly untouched, and marched off muttering angrily. How unfair it was, he always got to break up the fights. Granted none of his comrades were mind blowing amazing at fighting, but given the experiences they had over the years, and the wars they had (accidentally) won, and all the ass they (miraculously) kicked; they had gotten pretty good at it. Using the loosest definition of “pretty", and “good”, of course. But if they had a reason, a drive to beat the shit out of somebody, by God they kicked major enemy butt. Griff and Simmons however... They needed none of those, they had the fist flying even before they knew how to use them. The verbal banter resolved only so many problems, and Griff was a bastard; he enjoyed a little too much making fun of how nerdy Simmons was, and the  dutch-irish didn't help his case, what with the _being a nerd all the time_ thing he had going on.

They fought constantly.

So yeah. Fucking unfair.

The sounds of the fight were getting closer so instead of the showers as he initially thought, they came from the living quarters. He figured maybe this time he could, maybe, not get a black eye, if he managed to stay outside the room. Perhaps.

“Oh come one, you guys...” He started as he approached the door. Something, however, made him stop from pressing the intercom. Call it a sixth sense.

“I told you get off of me!”

That sounded like Simmons... It was a wrestling match then. Great.

Breaking those kinds of fights apart was a pain in his ass. One, because Simmons was bony as hell and managed to jab his elbows everywhere, mechanical and human. Two, because Griff was so heavy, it was impossible to move him without mechanized assistance. That had nothing to do with the fact that Donut was smaller that them. He was strong.

He was!

“This is your own fault. You think you're so tough, so smart. You think you're the best,” Grif’s mocking voice sing songed. Followed by what sounded like a punch. “But you can't handle it. Admit it.” Now _that_ , sounded like a crowbar to the face. Which was the exact noise Simmons mechanised arm made when connected with flesh.

“There is nothing to handle, you asshole. If you’re making things up again to pick a fight ...” Well, if he could whine, Simmons certainly wasn’t in any imminent danger, Donut rationalized.

“I didn’t make anything up, I saw you!”

At this point Donut’s disposition was of the curious kind. These two bickered over really stupid things, but the intensity in Grif’s voice was raw and, well, last time he heard this tone of voice from the orange armored captain, he had managed to throw off a pile of soldiers, and a former freelancer in order to protect a dumb plasma rifle.

And while he didn't want anybody dead (he would have to clean it, and it was bad for the feng shui, or so said Doc), he definitely got the vibe that this was a bit of a personal conversation. So he leaned on the wall and decided to wait it out, see if they would just stop. And maybe they did, and maybe in the process he could figure out what was actually happening.

A cheesy smile crept over his handsome face, a delightful thought forming on his peculiar mind.

Double-O Donut was back, and after a new case.

For the longest time, however, it was really quiet. Then, in a voice Simmons only ever directed at girls, he heard:

“What do you mean you... saw me.”

“That's fucking right, I've seen you. Helmet camera. I set an automatic record function, dumbass.”

\---o--

Simons stayed as he was, pinned between the considerable bulk of his team mate, and the hard, cold surface of the concrete floor. He stayed and tried to process what Grif meant, but he already had. His mind telling him he knew exactly what his team mate was talking about, but refusing to think it true.

“I...” He stammered. He couldn't respond to that, so he settled for the default response his brain was so accustomed to dish out. “I don't know what you are talking about. Get the fuck off of me.”

“Oh ho ho!” Grif chuckled, apparently delighted. “I think you know exactly what I’m talking about, you fucking hypocrates.”

“Its hypocrite…” He said in a small voice, turning his head as if in shame of his need to correct him.

“I don't give two flying fucks! God, can you stop being a nerd for two seconds? You can’t deny this. I saw you Simmons!” He accuses, squeezing the wrists he managed to pin down over his head, dragging them up as he moved closer to the red head's face. “And I... Have a video to prove it.” Simmons looked at him then, eyes dark under the hood of his frown.

Grif could see the moment the thought lit up in his capable brain. _There was no running from this_.

Griff pressed his face closer, using his bulk to gently squish Simmons to the floor. It had taken him some work, but he had him in a position that, while it wasn't impossible to escape, it was a very satisfying one nonetheless. Besides, knowing Simmons, he’d be too stunned, angry, and ashamed to fight back in time, and make it harder to pin him down.

All the Reds and Blues had stuck to the strict regimen Washington was so fond of, even after all the shit they had to endure had been resolved. Not because they wanted to, but rather because they didn't want to get their asses kicked ever again.

They had grown fond of doing the ass kicking, maybe the next time it could be intentional, and not a fuckig fluke.

So yeah, he had become strong, and Simmons as well, but he was more of a speed guy, while he and his wider frame, albeit slow, was just... strong.

And damn it, he was pleased. He will admit, the fact that it had taken him and his tanky frame so much effort, made it even better. To have Dick Simmons pinned down, with his arms over his head, and his long wiry legs framing his hips like this.

Griff loved it.

Getting closer to the dude’s face meant pressing harder on his body, it meant feeling the legs spread further apart, and when the idiot struggled, it meant... Oh fuck yes.

“Keep wiggling your ass, dipshit.” He said with a giant grin on his face. “I'm sure it will help you, because it sure as hell is helping me.”

“Fuck you, Griff! Get. The fuck. Off.” He protested while trying to wedge the mechanical leg under Grif’s stomach, and hopefully kick him off.

Griff didn't let him, holding his hands with one hand and pushing the knee aside with the other, looking at the flushed face, the indignation in the eyes. He had to admit, with every passing second, he regretted his stupid, dumb, split second decision less and less.

That is, until the robot arm got free and he had a millisecond to dodge a closed fist to the face. He got a punch on the shoulder instead, and it hurt like hell, but also fueled his rage enough to win the subsequent short wrestling match, where he, once again pinned the nerd down. This time, he got the hands under his back. It looked uncomfortable, and it pushed Simmons’ chest up in a painful looking position, if the grunts were any indication, but it was somewhat easier to hold his elbows in place.

“Now that you calmed down...” Simmons had definitely not calmed down. “Do you mind explaining yourself?”

\---o--

Simmons looked at him with pure hate, hoping his robot eye would spontaneously develop the ability to shoot lazers.

Fuck.

Fucking goddamn FUCK.

He wouldn't have thought the day would develop like this. In a million years. Never.

How could he? He was going about his normal duties, inventory, scheduling, maintenance on his cyborg limbs. The day was a going great. His latest upgrade meant he could actually take a shower now, and not some half assed wipe down to protect his reconstructed body.

He had just gotten dressed when Griff showed up, got in the shower, and about half a minute later, out of the fucking blue, asked him to join him in the shower for a fuck.

He did.

He actually called out from the stall “Yo, Simmons, wanna fuck?”

He assumed he was being teased, like usual, and naturally told him to fuck off. Apparently not happy with the retort, Grif then stepped out of the shower, still fucking naked, grabbed his arm, turned him around and taking advantage of Simmons half open mouth (of the process of reiterating his previous dismissal), he had kissed him.

Simmons brain short circuited, he was sure.

Once he “rebooted”, he found himself with wet hands under his shirt, and a tongue down his throat.

He flipped out, punched the little shit in the mouth and upturned a bench on his head, to then proceed to storm off to the safety of his living quarters. Where he thought to change clothes, and wash his face, maybe even disinfect himself. And perhaps also do a scan, find what exact part of his brain was freaking out for a completely different reason.

Because in a dark corner of his mind, there was a part of his brain (the one that took over when he "short circuited", he supposed) that was telling him "fuck yes fucking _finally_ ", and that he should go back and take advantage of the convenience of having a waterproof cyborg side... Since Griff had offered, hey, two birds with one stone.

No no no. He wasn't thinking about it. He wasn't.

He totally was.

And he hated himself for that. For you see, years ago his dick decided, without consulting him in the slightest, that Griff had a nice ass. It was, then, imperative to commence Deny and Repress Protocol, and after all the shit they went through, the wars, the losses, he was convinced that he had made the right choice.

Alone was better.

Detached was better.

Friend and enemy was better. Better than the alternative his sappy, sappy brain wanted to fantasize.

_Splat splat splat splat_.

He heard the steps too late, Griffs wet feet stomping on the ground as he ran after him, a murderous look on his face.

He raced to his door, but wasn't fast enough, and Griff had momentum. The door _ushed_ close behind them as they tumbled inside and the match began.

It was unfair, Grif was slick and slippery, and his blows were not making contact, his fists sliding off. Trying to grab something was impossible, and he could only flail, contorting his body to try and get the heavier guy off of him, because, even if he wasn't a complete fat ass anymore, even if he was still bulky, the idiot had fucking filled up with rock hard muscles. They'd both had to do the same running, and fighting, and surviving, and even after that they stuck to the same insane training routine. How was it then, that this dumb piece of shit got massive muscles, while he remained the skinny little shit he had always been? Yes, he was stronger, but... He was distracted and enraged, and it was because of his lack of concentration that he ended up like this. Like a turtle on his back, legs spread, hands pinned.

He felt his face redden, his heart beating, he could swear the entire squad over at the Blue side of the base could hear it.

CLANCK CLANCK CLANCK.

Fuckign robot heart.

He could feel the cold floor on his skin, where his t-shirt had ridden up, and on the small of his back, where his sweats had rolled down, his navel completely exposed and warm, so confusingly warm.. He could feel the solid press of Griffs hips on his thighs, the heat his body radiated, and the shivers he felt when the water droplets from his still wet hair fell and landed on his chest.

At least the idiot had had the decency of throwing on sweatpants before chasing after him. Which left him with an open view of the wide expanse of soft skin. He wasn't fooled, though. He knew under the pudgy looking exterior was the reason he couldn't break free.

“Get the fuck off me, Griff!” He barked after taking some very needed breaths.

“Stop struggling and give it up, Simmons, I know you want it.” He leered.

“I want nothing from you, you piece of...”

“I know you want me.” The bigger man interrupted with such deadly seriousness in his face, that it took a second for Simmons to understand what he said. Then another second to marvel at the cheek, the shamelessness, and the filthy confidence the fat fuck had the indecency of displaying.

“I told you to get off of me.” He could see the bigger man getting mad. Getting frustrated. He didn't care.

“This is your own fault. You think you're so tough, so smart. You think you're the best.” He started as Simmons renewed his efforts to escape, freeing one hand and smacking the darker man on the side of the head. Griff just grabbed the hand again, eyes blazing “But you can't handle it. Admit it. Simmons other hand had broken free and made painful contact with his other side of the head.

“There is nothing to handle, you asshole. If you’re making things up again to pick a fight...” The redhead snarled.

“I didn’t make anything up, I saw you!”

Simons went a little limp.

“What do you mean you... saw me.” His voice cracked a little (a lot).

“That's fucking right, I've seen you. Helmet camera. I set an automatic record function, dumbass.”

\--- o ---

Out in the corridor, Donut had slid down to the floor, knees to his chest, and the most concentrated and attentive expression on his face.

Well, color him already super curious.

\---o---

_“Now that you calmed down...” Simmons had definitely not calmed down. “Do you mind explaining yourself?”_

“I’ve got nothing to explain” He was committed to not give the asshole any sort of satisfaction. He wasn’t giving up.

“No, you see, you do have things to explain.” Grif corrected him with a cocky grin that didn't match the very different fire in his eyes. “And you wanna know why? Because I have this interesting little video my helmet cam recorded a while back while I was out on the supply run trip.”

In the last couple months, Grif had taken to go get supplies himself, since it was a sure way to get first dibs on the snacks.

He had come back from the last one to the weirdest feeling that something was wrong with his room. At first glance it was perfectly fine, sparkly and pristine thanks to Franklin, but he just... had a _feeling_.

He didn’t need his orange armor for a supply run, so he’d put standard issue, regular, left over armor, and left his kick ass enchanced baby in the room. The helmet had a soft light on the inside, he could see the rhythmic blinking faintly on the frame the armor was propped on, courtesy of Donut, since he absolutely hated for Grif to leave his armor lying around, and had figured a “cool” alternative to make him keep it tidy.

He had chuckled, shoved a cookie in his mouth and walked over the stand. He had taken to leaving his helmet camera on standby with the motion sensors on at all times when he left it behind.

See, the rest of the team seemed to think it was funny fucking with his gear. So he had left it just in case, and now he had caught a motherfucker.

He had grabbed the helmet and  walked back to the bed, sat down and put the helmet on to enjoy the show.

And oh boy, what a show it was.

When the helmet came off, he still had cookie on his mouth (as he somehow had forgotten to finish chewing at one point), but he also had the biggest hard on he’s had in a long, long time.

He couldn’t quite believe what he had just seen. So he rewatched it. Several times. Until he had no choice but to accept it.

Lying on his bed, the sun rising up, and his pants absolutely ruined, he couldn't do anything else but laugh at the absurdity of the situation, because apparently, Simmons had come into his room, completely wasted and talkedto the walls, like he was there to listen. Did some freaky stalker shit, like smelling his pillow, and then promptly jerked off on his floor. There was lot more in that video, things that were said he had to decipher, and enhance to figure them out, but... He would never have thought...

And now that he knew...

Now that he knew, what was he supposed to do? He wasn’t a secret kind of person. He just said whatever came into his mind. But right now, if he was honest, with Simons in front of him.. Under him, he was a little bit nervous.

The confidence and excitement he felt that first night while watching the video watered down as the days had passed. He’d had no chance to confront Simmons, since they were constantly drilling, or training, or battling the blues, which was completely unnecessary, but old habits, he guessed. Besides, it made the whole team combined so much better. So they kept the tradition.

So when they had this odd quiet day, where both teams just dropped everything and relaxed without saying a word, he figured he had a decent chance of catching the nerd for a little talk. Things would surely lead the way of his bedroom, so before the talk he figured Simmons kind of deserved a clean Grif. To start things on the right foot.

His plan formed, he had gone to the showers with a giant smile on his face, convinced things would go smoothly.

Hey, it’s not like he didn't like Simmons before. He did, he liked him a lot, and for a long time, too. He was an ass, a fucking nerd, but damn it if he wasn’t hot. All long legs and white fucking skin. And smart. And cute at times.

Ok, so maybe it was more than _like_ , maybe he was in _love_ , but they also were at war, so that fact wasn’t here nor there.

He had to admit, though, using the donated hand to play pretend had been really fun, but now that he had seen that video... It was never going to be enough anymore.

He had gone to the showers, he had seen Simmons, and chickened out a little, but in the end he just did what he always did, and puked his thoughts out. The nerd thought he was joking, and he debated to leave it at that, when he realized he was actually teenage nervous.

But he had been thinking of that damned video the whole week, so he made the made his mind in the space of a second to take a more direct approach. And kissed the redhead.

It was a bit of an awkward kiss, since neither of them was really prepared for it, but for a beautiful moment, he felt the slender body melt into him, just to have his teeth almost knocked out the next.

And now here they were.

Simmons under him, as planned.

Not his room, but it was a room.

And definitely not on the bed, but it was right next to them, so it sort of counted.

“Simmons, you know better than anybody that you can’t handle alcohol that well.” He decided to help him out with the memory thing.

“Grif, I have no idea what you are talking about, I swear.” Simmons complained, but he did know, a little. He had a vague recollection of having been in the other’s room, and maybe he had been a bit drunk and horny, but that meant nothing.

Right?

“Let me help you out, man” Grif Started good naturedly. “It goes like this: you come into my room, with a bottle in your hand, and start calling me names, even though I wasn’t there.”

Oh god.

“You did some pretty weird shit, I have to tell you.” He continued, ever helpful.

He had.

“Also, you cried like a little girl.”

He did.

\---o--

That night, they had finished drilling with the Blues, and Tucker decided it was a good night to celebrate... No one was entirely sure what they were celebrating, but hey.

The bottles had appeared and he hadn't questioned it. Only he forgot he had half a body, and it took a lot less to impair him than the others. So yeah, he had been drunk (freaking wasted), and he had gone into Grif’s room. He had, indeed, laid on his pillow, and touched his armor, and talked to the walls because he had the feeling that it counted. Grif’s presence was imprinted on the place, right? So it counted as something right?

It hadn't, but he was drunk. And although the sheets were clean, they were Grif’s (Donut designated them to his personal use since he had gotten them stained with some sort of sauce that would not come off), and they did retain some of his stink.

See, he said stink, but that didn’t deter him from sniffing it again. And once more when his hand went down the front of his pants. He had seen the armor, eerily propped up in display, and it gave him the feeling Grif was staring at him, which comforted him a little in his drunken loneliness, but also made him unexpectedly even more aroused. He wasn’t this sort of guy, he wasn’t kinky, or pervy, he wasn't even that sexual, convinced there were more important thing to occupy his mind. He remembered pulling his pants down and just staring at the visor, pretending the idiot was in it.

Jesus, the things that had come out of his mouth.

Then when he was done, he just stared at the stain on the floor, hand on his dick, and he felt so pathetic. And yes, he cried.

So now he was back in the very awkward, very unexpected present. He had stopped struggling, face beet red, refusing to look at Grif in the eyes.

“I...I’m sorry. I wasn’t in my right mind.” He finally stammered, his voice nothing but a whisper.

“Hey man, nothing to be sorry about.” Griff just shrugged. “That is, if you take responsibility for your actions.” The smile never falling from that cocky face.

“No Grif, you don’t understand. It wasn’t me, I was drunk.” Simmons tried to make the bigger man see reason.

“No Simmons, it was you.” Grif said softly, comfortingly. “And I liked it... I liked it a lot.” His grip on the other man had softened, he had brought his face closer, and he could feel the heat steaming off of his flushed face on his own. He wanted to kiss him again so bad.

So he did.

Simmons jumped, gasped, but didn't fight it. Why would he really, when it felt this good? Grif was more careful this time around, and stuck to gently sucking on the other man's soft lips (and how does a guy keep soft lips, really?).

Tugging gently at the corners of his mouth, he eased the grip on the elbows, even letting go of one to grab him by the back of the neck, and that is what finally made Simmons relaxed, his back melting onto the concrete, cold floor. He felt his mismatched hands on his shoulders, tentative, timid. So goddamn cute, that he instinctively forced the kiss a little deeper, and he couldn't help the little _humm_ that came from his throat when he felt the other's mouth open.

It was heaven.

Warm, and smooth, and oh, dear God, he was kissing back. That was Simmons tongue he was feeling in his mouth, and it felt so, so sweet. His own tongue meeting the shy little licks, and he couldn't retain much composure after that.

He was known to be a hungry man.

Simmons was a bit confused still, a bit shy, but hell, this was a side of the idiot he never thought existed. He was actually being _gentle_. Up until the moment he opened his mouth, that he relaxed his back, he could feel the tension creep up Grif’s instead. He was a little more forceful, and the thing with the tongue? Fun-fucking-tastic.

Grif was good at this.

He felt his mouth practically devoured, and Grif’s other hand (the one not holding his face at such optimal kissing angle), had taken residence stroking his human leg, squeezing his knee, gliding down and giving the same treatment to his ass, making him moan loudly.

Grif broke the kiss and stared at him, his eyes somewhat glazed, stupid grin on his face... And he squeezed again.

He managed to keep silent, but it must have shown, how much he liked that. Grif’s expression darkened, and he went for this neck this time, sucking and licking. Simmons own hands moving from their timid perch on the shoulders to grab at his hair, his back. His breath coming out in pants, and his vision going kaleidoscope on account of how good Grif’s mouth felt right there, under his jaw. He felt teeth scraping and there it was again, the moan.

The man decided to go back to his mouth, and Simmons took full advantage, putting both arms around his neck, while feeling a hand snaking under his back, pressing him into the bigger body and making him aware of the fact that Grif’s hips were rocking against his. His legs had clenched around the man's waist at some point, he guessed, and the hand under his back moved to grab him around the waist, lifting him and...

He was well aware of how loud he was suddenly being, but feeling his dick pressed to Grif’s was undeniable hot, the fabric of the pants making it a bit rough, but by no means overpowering how goddamned good it felt...

“Grif...” He panted, surprised at how easily the name rolled off of his tongue. “Holy fuck, _Grif!_ ” Simmons gasped, burying his face on the other's neck as he felt the idiot strike a sensual, unforgiving rhythm.

Feeling his moans, whines and gasps getting out of control, Simons latched his mouth to Grif’s neck, felt him shudder, and groan, and decided to bite, and suck and lick as much skin as he had available. In turn, Grif hastily let go of his waist to pin his hips down to grind the slender body into the floor.

Grif couldn't help it, the little shit was doing everything right, even if he didn't know it. That smart, suck up mouth he had, being used for a good cause for once in his life.

Oh, he would make sure to take full advantage, explore all the possibilities, his mind reeling with lust, creativity, and a sudden urge to _get to work_ on these brilliant plans of his.

He was so close... He hadn’t planned it like this, but he couldn't stop now. Not when he had such precious vision squirming in his arms.

Simmons was tearing at his hair with his flesh hand, legs around his waist and feet digging in his ass, letting out the most beautiful sounds. He felt him clench his cyborg fingers, digging them painfully into his shoulder, and saw him come apart.

Trembling, head thrown back, eyes closed and mouth open wide, letting out the sexiest fucking moan of all time.

Eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, Grif grabbed Simmons by his still spasming hips, straightened himself, and just went to town. Not long after, his own head thrown back and eyes closed, he felt himself climax in his pants as he pressed his crotch firmly into Simmons’ ass, slowly grinding on the slender hips, dragging it out, massaging himself on the redhead's soft body, milking the moment for everything he could get.

He realized a pleasured groan was escaping his throat,  and when he looked down and saw the expression on the redhead's face, he wished so bad that he thought of putting his helmet on. Record that shit. Take a picture and make it his desktop wallpaper. Carry it on his wallet.

It was beautiful.

And he wasn’t even naked.

\---o---

Out in the hall, Donut sat petrified, completely stunned by what he had just heard. The cycle of thoughts circling around in his mind, as if to find the telling flaw that would tell him he had imagined all of it.

_Simmons is in trouble_.

_Oh shit Simmons had... wait what?_

_Those are definitely making out sounds. Grif and Simmons are making out. Like less than eight feet away from me_.

_Man Simons is loud_.

_Holy shit, holy freaking shit those are sex sounds. Those are motherfuckingsexsounds. They were making out, they were fighting and now they are doing sex things and Griff and Simmons were_ fucking. 

And how does he know?

_The mother fucking slapping sounds. And the orgasmic moans_.

Donut got up on jelly legs, face frozen in wonder and a little bit like a flash bomb had gone off, with the clear intention of having the longest, most through session with his (ahem) diary. He was recording this for prosperity. While it was fresh on his memory.

He wondered if the guys would have any problem with recounting the events for his novel.

Oh he was making this into a novel. He even had the perfect title!

_Love in my canyon._

It would sell like hot cakes.

**Author's Note:**

> I regret nothing.
> 
> Also I'm super new to the fandom, please leave all the feedback you feel necessary.
> 
> (Thank you so much jubilantdoctor for the help with the italics!)


End file.
